On Wednesday, 16 February, I fell asleep in London and woke up in Barcelona. Sun-starved, dazed, stepping out onto the bright tarmac, I thought: this is what that guy from that book must have felt like when he came out of that cave. My friends and I took a bus from the airport, past the bullfighting stadium and the Arc de Triomf, past the fountains and Noucentista statues at Plaça de Catalunya. We checked into a hostel near La Rambla, a street filled with all the trappings of tourism—living statues and waffle vendors and souvenir vendors and pickpockets and those little rubber firefly things that people slingshot into the air.
This was our reprieve from the relentless cloud cover of London, so it was time to soak up some vitamin D. We took a tangerine-colored tram to Montjuïc. We walked through winding trails of flora, fauna, fountains, and sculptures in the jardins.
Jardins de Laribal, Montjuïc